Often skipped—the essential elixir,
That will slake a thirsty mixer,
The water is a potent potion,
Easing the parched dry emotion,
No sand blowing in this trickster.
Hard ice, soft vapor, a running stream,
A steady flow holds in my dream,
Freely given as nature’s gift,
From mountains or the deep sea’s rift,
Moistening the eye, a sparkling gleam.
So much earth has a sea’s coating,
Leaving no trail from explorers’ boating,
Continents drift amid ancient seas,
Favoring sailing with a steady breeze,
They knew the deep they were floating.
The purest gift from heaven’s sky,
Wrung from thunderheads skirting by,
Drops and sleet of rain accrue,
Giving to nature its just due,
To keep life moist, or it will die.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.